Orthodoxia
Their black suits, hats and long beards have always been part of my French childhood. They represented religiosity and uncompromising application of the Thorah. They taught me how to read a Talmud page and to pray in a language that I didn't understand. When I was 13 my uncle showed me how to wear the Tephilin and the Taleth and how to read in the Torah scrolls "My" Torah part, the one I was to read at the synagogue during the week of my Bar-Mitzvah. I have never been part of their world but they have been part of mine, slowly binding me, whether I like it or not, with the four thousand year old traditions of my people.
Their situation here, in Israel, is dramatically different than in France. A historical antagonism opposed them since the early days of the twentieth century to the founders of the country that turned their back to religion and embraced a socialist vision of Zionism. The ultra secular community that rose more prominently in the Kibbutz rejected the Diaspora Judaism as unable to provide the answer to never ending persecutions that would culminate in the great pogrom of the middle of the century. On their side, in Europe, religious fathers would go into mourning over the son that left the ancestral village to be a farmer in remote malaria struck areas in the Land of Israel.
Today, as a group, they have a controversial position in the country. Historical laws, meant to save the small remains of European Orthodox Jews that made it through the Shoah, have given them the right not to serve in the army. In parallel their representatives have, over the years, played a political game that has irritated most Israelis, gathering just enough influence in the Knesset to promote their community's interests and to vote tailor made laws that allowed them to stay aside of the rest of the country, mostly without contributing to the common efforts and sacrifices.
Yet, passed the huge gap between their way of life and mine, I have to admire their spirit, and sometimes, as paradoxical as it may be, their surprising openness.
I was once in the Belz Yeshiva in Jerusalem, wandering around and taking pictures without any preliminary agreement, when an elder asked me to get closer with his finger."Are you a professional?" he asked. I didn't know what the right answer was, and tried a confused explanation. He answered that it was ok, and I could go on taking pictures. As I looked puzzled, he told me the story of the Belz Rabbi, in the 40's that was once disrupted in his study by one of his students that told him that a journalist was asking if he could take a picture of him. The student assumed that the answer would be negative, but to his surprise, the rabbi went to meet the journalist, asked if photography was the man's job, and when answered positively, fetched his festive cloths, and took the pose. When asked about his surprising decision, the rabbi's answer was that he was, like any other religious Jew in the world, and among tens of other prayers, asking for the "livelihood of the people of Israel". "We are asking god for it everyday, but not everyday can we actually do something about it…".
Their situation here, in Israel, is dramatically different than in France. A historical antagonism opposed them since the early days of the twentieth century to the founders of the country that turned their back to religion and embraced a socialist vision of Zionism. The ultra secular community that rose more prominently in the Kibbutz rejected the Diaspora Judaism as unable to provide the answer to never ending persecutions that would culminate in the great pogrom of the middle of the century. On their side, in Europe, religious fathers would go into mourning over the son that left the ancestral village to be a farmer in remote malaria struck areas in the Land of Israel.
Today, as a group, they have a controversial position in the country. Historical laws, meant to save the small remains of European Orthodox Jews that made it through the Shoah, have given them the right not to serve in the army. In parallel their representatives have, over the years, played a political game that has irritated most Israelis, gathering just enough influence in the Knesset to promote their community's interests and to vote tailor made laws that allowed them to stay aside of the rest of the country, mostly without contributing to the common efforts and sacrifices.
Yet, passed the huge gap between their way of life and mine, I have to admire their spirit, and sometimes, as paradoxical as it may be, their surprising openness.
I was once in the Belz Yeshiva in Jerusalem, wandering around and taking pictures without any preliminary agreement, when an elder asked me to get closer with his finger."Are you a professional?" he asked. I didn't know what the right answer was, and tried a confused explanation. He answered that it was ok, and I could go on taking pictures. As I looked puzzled, he told me the story of the Belz Rabbi, in the 40's that was once disrupted in his study by one of his students that told him that a journalist was asking if he could take a picture of him. The student assumed that the answer would be negative, but to his surprise, the rabbi went to meet the journalist, asked if photography was the man's job, and when answered positively, fetched his festive cloths, and took the pose. When asked about his surprising decision, the rabbi's answer was that he was, like any other religious Jew in the world, and among tens of other prayers, asking for the "livelihood of the people of Israel". "We are asking god for it everyday, but not everyday can we actually do something about it…".
